Second Edition

Chapter 1

One

JOSEPHINE

The clawing, undying need to make every single person in your life happy isn’t an easy habit to break.

Even when you realize you’re a people pleaser and recognize it’s likely a big part of why you’re so miserable, it would be easier to perform your own root canal than do something about it.

I’m an only child, for god’s sake. We’re practically programmed to be amiable. When other kids were wrestling with their siblings, I was playing chess with my mother or solving quadratic equations with my father. Family vacations usually involved a “short stop” at some sort of conference or think tank (though I still couldn’t explain what a think tank is) and catered birthday parties to ensure the many adults in attendance wouldn’t be forced to eat pizza and cheese puffs.

It sounds really ungrateful to complain about all that. A lot of people have actual problems with their families, and that I was beyond lucky to grow up with parents who loved each other and me. Not so occasional loneliness aside, my childhood was good. Which is probably what’s made it so hard to be honest with them. Or myself .

At twenty-two years old, I’ve become exactly what they always hoped I would be. I’m the kind of college senior that my parents’ friends wish they had, and while it should make me happy that I’ve missed my early-twenties hot mess era, all I am is embarrassed.

I’ve known something was coming, sensed the desperation building up inside me like steam in a kettle. This has happened before, and a good old-fashioned fit of sobbing into my pillow for half an hour usually clears it right up. Not this time. A full-on breakdown seemed imminent, and all I could do was brace for impact.

That being said, I might be depressed, but I’m not an idiot. Even without my therapist’s prompting, I knew I had to step out of my comfort zone, and I really tried to .

I went to a party—and spent most of the time pretending to text a non-existent friend.

I got a haircut—and now I have to manage curly haired bangs on top of everything else.

I joined a tennis club—spoiler alert: tennis sucks.

None of it was enough. The pressure has kept on building, becoming more unbearable by the day, and somewhere in there, a dangerous reality has made itself known: I hate my life.

Not in an “I want to die” kind of way, thankfully. I’m not suicidal, I’m just tired of working so hard to succeed at something that has done nothing but make me miserable. Even with all that self-awareness, I didn’t know what I was going to do about it, but sucking it up and continuing on as I did before wasn’t an option.

A meeting with my advisor last week confirmed I’m only a few credits short of graduating early, which means that if I play my cards right, I will finish my undergraduate degree by the end of the year. Then, I’ll have my pick of grad schools, and after that, a soulless, mind numbing job that will probably take me right from “I hate my life” to “I want to die” in no time.

No wonder I’ve felt ready to explode.

I just didn’t expect it to be triggered by a little black dress laid out on my bed.

In Mom’s defense, she probably thought she was being helpful. I’ve been crazy busy the last few weeks, studying and taking finals to wrap up my anticlimactic junior year. The party tonight is her thing, and I’m sure she wants to make it easy for me to attend. It’s hardly the first we’ve hosted this year, or even this month. As President of Weston University—the same school I attend—most of Mom’s job seems to be schmoozing donors and keeping the legions of overworked, underpaid academics happy.

Everyone wants to have face time with their boss, my brilliant mother. My brilliant mother who took the time out of her busy schedule to purchase a beautiful, expensive dress for me to wear tonight. A dress that is perfect on paper and will probably fit me flawlessly, but is all wrong in all the ways that matter.

Staring down at it, blood rushing in my ears and my heart beating far too hard for a girl who just spent the better part of an hour plucking her eyebrows, the terrible, undeniable truth seemed to wash over me.

This stupid dress was a stupid symbol for my stupid life. I didn’t like it, and yet there wasn’t a question in my mind that I was going to put it on, anyway.

With a hand pressed over my lips, I take a few steps away, my back hitting the wall. I barely feel it. This is it, the moment I knew was coming, only I don’t cry my eyes out or scream into my pillow.

My phone is in my pocket, and I rip it out, struggling to get my hands to stop shaking long enough to type out the email that has already been mentally composed, recomposed and checked for grammatical errors about a dozen times.

Doctor Novak,

I’m reaching out to inform you that I will not be returning to Weston University for the fall semester. I’ll be taking some time off to focus on my mental health and reevaluate my plans for the future. Could you please advise me on what steps I can take to ensure re-enrollment is not an issue if/when I should choose to return.

Thank you in advance for your advice and time.

J. Sutton

I press send as quickly as I can, and the moment I do, I drop to the floor beside my bed, breathing heavily and searching myself for signs of regret. There’s still time to undo this. I could email Doctor Novak right back and tell him I had some kind of mental break and to please disregard my previous email. The man has worked in academia for decades. I’m sure he’s heard it before.

Instead, I set my phone on the mattress behind me, staring blindly at the opposite wall. Did I really just do that?

There’s a quick knock on the door and my panic notches higher.

“Jo!” Mom calls, cheerful and utterly unaware that I’ve destroyed my perfect-daughter status. “Are you dressed? The caterers are still getting set up and people will be here any minute. Would you mind showing them where everything is?”

It’s a struggle to swallow. “I’ll be right there!”

Footsteps retreat toward the stairs, but I still don’t move. Did I seriously just withdraw from school? My mother is the president. The president of an ivy league university’s daughter doesn’t drop out . Do they?

I open my phone again and check the “sent” folder.

Yup. Apparently, the daughter of university presidents do sometimes drop out of school. Or, at least, this one does.

If this had been even slightly planned, I would have prepared Mom for this. She is so proud of me, she cares about my education so much, and now I’m throwing it all to the wind for… what?

I have no idea.

Oh god.

Am I having a mental breakdown? It doesn’t feel like a mental breakdown, but I’ve never had one before, so what do I know?

Getting to my feet is a struggle, but I manage it. Bypassing the ugly black dress at the end of my bed, I head to the closet and flick on the light, staring around hopelessly. It’s all the same . Every garment in here is black, dark blue, brown or gray. They’re all made of some fussy “dry-clean only” material, and usually come with a matching cardigan. There isn’t a single fun, colorful summer dress or pair of cute but impractical shoes.

Even my underwear is beige. Not panties— underwear . There is most definitely a difference, and nobody could look at these things and tell me otherwise. I’m twenty-two years old. If this isn’t my panties era, will I ever have one?

How did I never see it before?

How is it possible I didn’t notice that I hate my clothes?

My stomach churns as I snatch my least tragic dress from its hanger. There are a pair of almost fashionable heels that always give me blisters, but I put them on anyway.

My panic flairs as I check the time and realize another potential complication of my hastily made life-choice.

In only a few minutes, Weston faculty and staff will begin descending on the president’s house for free drinks and finger food. How did it not occur to me that my advisor, Dr. Novak, the man I just emailed to inform him I was dropping out, could very well be among them?

Crap .

The kitten heels turn out to be a blessing in disguise. While I have no practical experience in the matter, I would guess that vaulting down a set of two-hundred-year-old polished wooden stairs while wearing pumps would end in bloodshed.

God, why did I have to blow up my life tonight of all nights?

If I’d just… sucked it in , I could have told my parents I had a headache, and spent the night hiding in my room while the indistinct murmur of voices and obligatory laughter drifted up through the floors. They wouldn’t have questioned it, and nobody would have missed me, or wondered why the president of Weston University’s twenty-two-year-old daughter wasn’t in attendance.

I’m panting by the time I arrive in the foyer, looking wildly around for signs of my mother. The front door is still, thankfully, closed and the only people in sight are a set of frantic looking caterers lighting the candles beneath the chafing dishes in the dining room.

“Mom!” I call, endeavoring to sound casual, and not like I’m having a full-blown crisis and did something stupid for the first time in my boring, vanilla, underwear wearing life.

Heels click on wood floors, and seconds later, my mother comes into view wearing a dress very similar to the one she laid out for me and a pair of pearl earrings she brings out for all these things. “Hi, sweetheart.” She looks me up and down, frowning slightly. “Did the dress not fit?”

“Um. Maybe?” I wade through my disjointed, panicky thoughts. “Is Dr. Novak coming tonight? ”

“I’m not sure. I’d have to ask my assistant.” She turns toward the study. “George! George, are you ready?”

My father appears with his tie hanging loose around his neck, hands shoved deep in his pockets and wearing the usual faraway expression he gets when he’s been working on a particularly challenging equation. In some circles, George Sutton is a legend, but I’ve never quite been able to work out how such a brilliant man can also routinely forget his way to the kitchen.

Mom moves over to knot Dad’s tie, smiling at him fondly.

I’m almost dizzy with disbelief. This is happening. I’m actually doing this. Right now. I’ve painted myself into a corner, and the only way out is to make a really big mess.

“I have to tell you guys something,” I squeak.

Two sets of eyes settle on me, and I take a deep breath, my chest aching with anxiety at the inevitable disappointment to come. “I’m withdrawing from the fall semester. I haven’t been happy, and I have to take some time to figure out what I want.”

Somewhere deep in the house, someone drops a plate, and all three of us wince.

Mom recovers first and blinks at me, utterly bemused. “You want to be a physicist, Jo. Like your father. That’s what you’ve always wanted.”

She’s right. I have always wanted that. “I think I thought I wanted that, because I’m good at it, and it made both of you so happy. It’s not enough for me, though. I’m not sure what I’m going to do, travel maybe, but I need to make a change.”

I’m pretty proud of myself for the delivery. It sounds as if I’m actually sure about this, like I’m confident this isn’t a big, fat, stress induced mistake. Even if I’m melting down internally, I keep my chin up, and my voice doesn’t waver even once.

After a few seconds of stunned silence, Mom’s, however, does. “This isn’t the time, Jo. We’ll discuss it later.” She checks the elegant gold watch on her wrist and frowns. “Please go help the caterers find what they need.”

My shoulders slump, but she doesn’t need to tell me twice. I’m grateful for any chance to catch my breath. Thankfully, the caterers need a lot of help and I’m able to kill almost half an hour before I’ve officially started getting in the way, and I head back toward the entryway with a sphere of dread, approximately the mass and density of a cement bowling ball, sitting at the bottom of my stomach.

Arguments with my mother have been few and far between, but that’s all over now. As she’ll soon learn, the decision was made before consulting her, and even if it upsets her, I have no intention of backing down. The execution might have been a bit shaky, but if the sudden absence of unbearable pressure building inside me is any indication, I needed to do this.

Dad is nowhere to be seen as I slip back into the entryway, taking the place beside Mom just as a thin, white-haired man hobbles into view.

“Dean Michaels. Thank you so much for coming.” Her expression is pinched into a polite smile. “You’ve met my daughter, Jo, I believe? She’ll be entering her senior year in the fall.”

Subtle, Mom.

I barely suppress a grimace as the man’s watery eyes settle on me. In institutions as old as Weston University, change is slow. Dean Michaels, the head of the English department, who is about two decades past retirement age and can barely string together a coherent budget proposal, is proof of that.

“Oh yes.” He nods, shuffling past us into the foyer. “She’s a beauty. Looks just like my late wife’s sister.”

My mother’s left eye twitches, and she opens her mouth, no doubt to let forth a long list of my achievements, none of which have anything to do with my face, but I squeeze her arm and give her a look as the man heads off without further comment. “Not worth it,” I mutter under my breath. “He’ll forget this conversation even happened by the time he gets to the sitting room.”

On any other night, she would appreciate the joke. We’d share a conspiratorial smile or a quiet laugh. Now, all I get in response is a tight nod. The moment he’s gone, Mom rounds on me. “You are one semester off from graduating, Jo,” she mutters, careful to keep her voice low. “If you’re burned out, you can take time off before grad school.”

I don’t meet her eyes, choosing instead to stare at the ugly portrait of one of Weston’s former presidents hanging opposite us, a hollow ache growing inside me. “Mom. I don’t want to pursue theoretical physics as a career,” I croak, trying again. “It doesn’t make me happy. I’ve been struggling for a long time.”

The depression diagnosis we never talk about hangs heavy in the air between us.

She blows out a long breath, her eyes on a couple getting out of their parked car across the street. “There are a lot of things you can do with a physics degree that aren’t being a physicist. Law is an option, or medical school?—”

“I have no interest in either of those things.”

She whips around to face me, her expression rigid. “So what are your plans, Jo?” Her voice has taken on a hysterical edge and, glancing around, she lowers it as she continues, “I can’t stop you from dropping out of school, but your father and I won’t be funding your soul searching expedition . What is your plan here? The only job you’ve ever had is babysitting. I doubt that will pay your way around the world.”

I’m pretty sure there’s just a gaping, empty hole where my heart used to be. I assumed she would be mad, but my mother had never spoken to me like that before .

Then again, I’ve never gone head to head with her before tonight.

Another couple arrives at the door, and I’m only vaguely aware of Mom greeting them smoothly, the image of dignity and professionalism.

As they head off to greet their colleagues, Dad shuffles back into view, frowning down at a packet of heavily annotated equations. More people are coming up the walk, and while I’m fairly confident that I’m being a coward right now, I seize my opportunity to book it.

If Mom notices, she doesn’t try to stop me.

The house is full and busy. Parties like this happen all too often, with different groups or departments showing up in hopes of getting some time with the woman in charge of their budget requests. It’s not just an obligation for me— nobody wants to be here.

Any other night, I would make small talk, mingle and stand in as Elizabeth Sutton 2.0. Tonight, I need to be alone.

Going back upstairs would mean getting past Mom, and I’m not willing to risk another soul withering lecture. I grit my teeth as I weave through the little clusters of Weston employees, breathing easier as the population dwindles the further I move from the main living areas. The library door is ajar, and I push through it, glancing around hurriedly.

Empty.

Groaning in relief, I push it closed behind me and sag back against the cool wood, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes until white spots appear in my vision. I let out a frustrated little shriek. “Shit, fuck, crap, mother freaking crapping crapsicles?—”

“ Ah … Excuse me?”

A gasp rips free from my throat and I turn so quickly that I almost fall over, staring in horror at the man I completely missed in my rush. He’s standing in an alcove before a table littered with puzzle pieces, and he looks almost as mortified as I feel.

He’s handsome.

It’s not the kind of thing I typically notice, or at least, I don’t typically notice it so noticeably. This guy— man —makes it hard not to though. He’s older than me, quite a bit older if his graying, light brown hair is anything to go by, but the sudden tightness in the muscles below my bellybutton suggest I don’t have a problem with that.

“Hi,” I squeak, heat rushing to my face.

He clears his throat, looking anywhere but at me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” His low, melodic voice is colored by an accent, French I think, and— phew . I didn’t think guys like this existed outside of my Kindle. I’m woefully unprepared.

My answering laugh verges on hysterical. “I think I’m the one who should apologize here. I don’t normally walk into libraries and start making up curse words.”

The stranger’s lips twitch. “It’s quite alright. No harm done. I may borrow crapping crapsicles, actually.”

Purely to give myself something to look at apart from his very handsome face, my eyes fall to the partially assembled puzzle laying before him. “That good of a party?” I edge closer, tilting my head to make out the picture on the box, a watercolor landscape.

“Is it a party?” He muses wryly, picking up a glass of whisky from the corner of the table and taking a sip. “I thought it was more of a campaign to get in the good graces of Madame President.”

My heart flutters, because if he’s talking this way, there’s no way he knows who I am. We haven’t met before, which means he thinks I’m a colleague, and I can’t bring myself to correct him. “Are you in her bad graces? ”

The stranger snorts, returning his attention to the puzzle. “I’m afraid so. Not that tonight will make any difference.”

I want to ask why, or at least find out his name so I can be nosy and question Mom later, but I keep my mouth shut and edge closer to the table, watching as he selects an edge piece and slots it into place.

“If it helps, there’s no way she’s as angry with you as she is with me.” Spotting another that fits, I reach out and take it, pressing the small bit of cardboard into the correct position. When I lift my gaze again, I meet a pair of pale blue eyes.

My stomach flips.

We both turn away, but the brief eye contact is enough to reduce me to goo. Gazing blankly at the jumble of tiny colored pieces before me, I scramble for something to say. I want to keep talking to him, but he’s fallen silent, absent-mindedly turning a piece between the long fingers of his left hand.

Again, it’s not the type of thing I take any notice of, but now I can’t help it. He’s not wearing a wedding ring.

“Sorry to crash your puzzle,” I finally manage quietly, trying my best to pretend there aren’t butterflies occupying the place where my abdominal organs are usually located. My heart is still tender from the fight with Mom, but removed from the weight of her disapproval, I can breathe again. “You can tell me to get lost if you want. I’m sure I can find my own hideout.”

He huffs a laugh, and as I sneak another peek over at him I see he’s smiling. “I’d rather you didn’t. It’s far less pathetic to be found doing a puzzle with a beautiful woman than on my own.”

Beautiful?

I’m positive I’m blushing like a madwoman and no amount of telling myself to calm the hell down helps. I’ve had crushes in the past, and sexually frustrated way-too-old-virgin or not, I have done some stuff. It’s been a while, but I’m not so innocent that a man calling me beautiful would prompt this kind of reaction.

Except I kind of like him. Not just his face—which is more than like-worthy on its own—but the way he talks. The accent is part of it, but the casual formality of it reminds me of the heroes in an Austin or Bront? novel. He reads, I’m sure of it, and it says a lot about my level of nerdiness that the image of this man sitting in bed with a book in his hands is downright erotic.

Though not as erotic as how I would persuade him to put it down.

Dear god, who am I right now?

I realize I’ve been silent for too long when he speaks again, his tone unsure. “That was inappropriate. I apologize if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

Oof . If I wasn’t sold before, the respect would seal the deal.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” I blurt out, and look at him again. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a bad night, and I’m not very good at… this.”

Whatever this is. Flirting, maybe?

He slots another piece of the puzzle into place before looking back up at me, and his crooked smile makes the muscles below my bellybutton tighten. “If it helps, I don’t make a habit of complimenting the appearance of strangers at parties. Or attending parties for that matter. So the fault here might be my poor execution of the compliment.”

“I thought we established this isn’t a party.”

The corners of his eyes crease as his smile widens, and god , I can’t stop looking at him. What is happening? He has to be older than me—a lot older than me—and would definitely not be talking this way if he knew I was the daughter of his boss. Is that shitty of me? It’s not like he asked. Or, maybe he does know, or at least guesses that I’m a student and he isn’t bothered ?

About thirty minutes ago, I was vaulting down the stairs to get to my mom and confess my impulsive bid for freedom. Now, my education situation isn’t even in the top five priorities.

“Will you tell me your name?”

My heart performs a funny sort of flip flop. Oh boy, I’m in so much trouble. I swallow. “Josephine. Jo, I mean. Pretty much everyone calls me Jo.”

A round of muted laugher sounds from elsewhere in the house, and I glance over my shoulder toward the door, pulse racing.

“Josephine,” he echoes, as though testing the way it sounds on his tongue—which is definitely better than mine . I’ve never particularly liked my name. It seemed stuffy and ordinary, with too many letters to fit comfortably on DMV forms. When he says it though…

“Do I get to know yours?” I ask, trying desperately to play it cool while every single cell in my body seems to be vibrating with excitement. I might not be very experienced, but I know he’s interested.

“Ellis.” He chuckles, and a hook low in my belly pulls in his direction. Ellis . Formal and a little old fashioned. Quiet, unassuming and eloquent. It suits him. I lower my gaze, giving myself a few seconds to chill the craping crapsicles out . It doesn’t work, because his next question knocks the wind right out of me. “Do you have plans after this?”